A Traditional Scotsman
by ThessalyMc
Summary: Swapping their usual roles, John applies his own deduction skills and Sherlock discovers a reason to appreciate a bad movie.
A/N: Many thanks to Ghyllwyne and sevenpercent for their beta eyeballs, and to jamlockk for originally introducing me to the idea of kiltlock and sending me a prompt. I didn't quite use it, but achieved kiltlock anyway :)

* * *

"No, no. Don't move. And don't say anything. I'm deducing."

"You're deducing?" Sherlock asked wryly, cocking an eyebrow at John as the other man sat rubbing Sherlock's legs where they lay draped across his lap.

"Yes."

"What are you deducing, then?"

"You liked this movie," John replied.

"It was an overly-dramatized, overly-romanticized, highly inaccurate bit of drivel put out by some Hollywood producer who doesn't know the first thing about British history."

"Inaccurate?" John asked with feigned shock. "Really?"

Sherlock paused, studying John as the other man leaned back on the sofa, watching him with a small smile. Sherlock sensed a trap.

"Yes, really. Tomatoes, John?"

"What about tomatoes?"

"They are New World fruits, not introduced to Europe until the 16th century."

"So?"

"So, they could not have been present in London at the time of Wallace's death at the beginning of the 14th century, and yet they had the extras flinging them at him on his way to his execution."

"Amazing."

"Also, the pipes were wrong."

"The pipes?"

"Yes. At the funeral of Wallace's father the camera showed a man playing the Highland Pipes, when the soundtrack was clearly Uillean Pipes."

"Oh, right. Clearly."

"Obviously. And that doesn't touch on the idiocy of suggesting that Wallace fathered Edward III on Isabella. She was a child at the time of his death, and Edward III was born nearly a decade after Wallace's execution."

"That does seem to be a bit of a temporal anomaly."

"Hardly, John. It's an impossibility. Hollywood aged her simply to add a romantic subplot to an already highly distorted depiction of events."

"So, you liked it."

"No," Sherlock responded, drawing out the vowel.

"Yeah, love, I think you did."

"What could possibly give you that impression, John?"

"Because you noted all these flaws, and dozens more besides, I'm sure, and you didn't voice a single one during the film."

"I was trying to be considerate. Won't be doing that again."

"Oh, no. I've seen you try to be considerate during a film you didn't enjoy. I know exactly how well that doesn't work. This was something else … and, oh … Oh. I'll bet I know what it was."

"No, John," Sherlock said, pulling his legs back and shifting to sit upright.

"Yes, actually," John replied, leaning over to bump his shoulder into Sherlock.

"What, then?"

"Well, I'm not just going to tell you, am I?"

"So you don't know. So much for your wager."

"No, I'll absolutely make that bet," John said with a smile that made Sherlock's fingers itch to reach for him. John pulled back with a grin that said he knew it. "I won't tell you. I'll show you. Stay here. I'll be right back."

Sherlock shook his head as John rose and disappeared up the stairs to the second bedroom. He couldn't imagine what John might think to find up there to prove his assertion that Sherlock had enjoyed Braveheart, which was absolutely preposterous. It was true that he had not voiced his complaints during the film, but he'd been … distracted. Sherlock shifted slightly on the sofa.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock listened to the sounds of John moving around upstairs. The only things they kept up there these days were Sherlock's old notebooks, his disguises, John's ridiculous collection of mystery novels, and his old army trunk. Sherlock himself hadn't been up there in weeks, though John had gone up last week to hang Sherlock's cassock after he'd collected it from the dry cleaner.

The sound of feet on the stairs caused Sherlock frown slightly. The sound was wrong. The flat slap of bare feet rather than the more muffled sound of John's socks. Why were John's feet bare?

Opening his eyes Sherlock turned to see John's bare feet descending the stairs, followed by his – Oh! His legs were bare, too. What was he wearing?

Sherlock rose, staring at John in shock as the other man returned to the sitting room, stopping just far enough inside the door to reach back and close it behind him. His legs and feet were bare, as were his arms. A plaid of blue, green, and yellow, with a touch of red, hung over his left shoulder, draped across his chest. The Watson tartan. A matching kilt hung low on John's hips.

Sherlock was stunned. He could feel the increase in his heart rate and respiration, and he was sure that the flush he felt heating his face was noticeable. Realizing that his mouth was hanging open, he closed it with a click of teeth, grateful that his tongue had been out of the way in time.

A smile that was a touch more smug that might be decent lit John's expression.

"I thought so."

"Oh, shut up," Sherlock growled, stepping close enough to reach out and run a finger that absolutely did not tremble along the plaid that crossed John's chest. "This isn't new. It's worn, but well cared for. Altered recently to fit you – the original owner was a broader man."

"He was, indeed. My grandfather was a beast of a man. He used to say he was built like a whisky barrel – short and stout. Could almost have fit two of me in this when Harry sent it."

"When did she send it? How did I not know?"

"The package arrived when you were at the Yard filling out the paperwork for the 'Murder in the Cathedral' case. I took it in to be altered when I took your cassock in for cleaning. Hung them in the wardrobe when they were returned," John replied.

"Do you have the rest?"

"Just the sporran, which is in pretty bad shape, and the shirt, which is far too large and not worth altering. Had been considering whether it was worth it to get the whole kit – a new shirt, and stockings and flashes and ghillie brogues. Wasn't sure I'd ever have a need for them."

"But you got the kilt altered."

"I did, didn't I?" John replied. "Seems like that was a wise decision."

Sherlock could hear the fond amusement in his voice. He dragged his gaze away from his hand playing with the folds of the plaid. John was smiling at him. A soft expression with an edge of heat to it. Sherlock felt his face flush. He lifted his other hand to rest on John's hip, his thumb brushing back and forth over the changing textures where the wool of the kilt met smooth, warm skin.

"John," he said roughly, with a deliberate glance down before looking up again with a smirk, "are you wearing any pants?"

"I think you'll find," John answered with a smile, his hands slipping around Sherlock's waist and sliding up his back, pulling their bodies together, "that in this regard, I am a traditional Scotsman."


End file.
